


The Ineffable Job

by Hedgehog-o-Brien (Roshwen)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Leverage
Genre: All's well that ends well though don't worry, And his Bentley, But mostly Humor and Fluff because I don't feel like riding the Angst Train rn, Can you see where that is going, Crossover, Eliot and Aziraphale bond over Food because of course they do, Except for the British Museum but they had it coming let's be real, Hardison does not like British Orange Soda, Humor, Multi, Parker likes Crowley's plants, Smidgeon of Angst bc Eliot's Past is involved, There's also a real case plot and such but that's not important ssssshhhhh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 06:05:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19717729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Hedgehog-o-Brien
Summary: ‘Crowley, enlighten me. Which of that happy trio am I supposed to strike down?’ he asks the demon, who is still glaring daggers in their general direction. ‘The girl, the one who just got robbed of his pizza slice by a duck or the one who looks like he is one acoustic guitar away from bursting out in a country ballad about West Virginia?’Or: when a case takes Team Leverage Inc., to London, they run into a strange couple. A ginger man who seemsveryexcited about Eliot, and who is joined at the hip to a frumpy blond guy who just seems very excited about things in general. And who seems possessed by some kind of supernatural ability to find them, wherever they go.It's just a pity they don't have time to get acquainted, because Hardison, Eliot and Parker have a museum to rob.





	The Ineffable Job

**Author's Note:**

> So this is what comes from my [Tumblr post](https://hedgehog-o-brien.tumblr.com/post/185628763111/good-omens-x-leverage-crossover-where-eliot-is) about the Leverage x Good Omens crossover that's been going around in my mind for a while now. No idea how good this is going to be, but when has that ever stopped me. Enjoy and don't be shy to say hi on Tumblr!

It was a sunny day in St James’ Park.

Most of the days after the Little Apocalypse that Couldn’t had been sunny so far. Which was unsurprising, giving that it was August and therefore sunny weather could be only expected. But it also _was_ surprising, because this was August in _Britain._

As a certain young Witchfinder Private had pointed out not so long ago: normal weather for the time of year wasn’t normal.

Unless there was an Antichrist not all that far away, who was still getting used to his newfound powers. And who felt rather charitable to the world around him at the moment, even if it included a set of parents who had grounded him for the foreseeable future because of that whole business of trying to bring about the end of the world.

But that’s another story, that’s already been told.

 _This_ story takes place a few weeks after all that unpleasantness and it starts in St James’ Park, where the sun is shining, the diplomats of various embassies are deep into their clandestine meetings with each other, the ducks are being tossed more bread than they know what to do with and an angel and a demon are quietly basking in the continued existence of the world at large and of each other in particular.

They are doing this by lounging on one of the green park benches. At least, Crowley is lounging: Aziraphale is pretty sure it is physically impossible for the demon to see a piece of furniture and _not_ drape himself all over it, which is part of the reason the angel is sitting primly as ever, but with his left shoulder fully annexed by red hair, a pair of sunglasses and a lazy smirk.

Crowley had claimed it was ‘comfortable’ and ‘no one’s looking anymore angel, let’s relax a little alright?’

The fact that Aziraphale did not even sputter, but instead has one arm wrapped around Crowley’s midsection to keep him closer, and the fact that Crowley’s long, slim hands are covering his own, idly toying with the ring around Aziraphale’s pinky while Aziraphale quietly, contentedly watches the ducks swim by, is proof that Adam has put the world back to rights right enough, but it is not _exactly_ the same.

They are both sitting in silence. A lot has been said and a lot has been talked about, talked over, and talked through in the past couple of weeks; for the moment, there is nothing more left to say and so they don’t. Even the park around them seems quieter than usual; the ducks glide silently from one pair of attaches to the next, the confidential meetings are held in a low whisper that does not carry further than it has to and even Aziraphale has chosen not to indulge himself in describing that wonderful little new Vietnamese place he discovered a week ago. Instead he sits, fingers curling gently into the soft wool of Crowley’s obnoxiously expensive pullover and basking himself in the sunlight of a perfect late afternoon.

Until Crowley stirs. First only with his face, scrunching his nose and furrowing his brow, sniffing the air in a way that sets off all of Aziraphale’s alarm bells at once, because Crowley getting wind of something is never good.

Before he can ask, however, Crowley bolts upright, launching himself of the bench and spinning around, even, and this is the part where Aziraphale really starts to panic, like full on nonexistent-heart-in-his-throat-and-knees-turning-to-water-panic, he even _takes off his sunglasses._

‘There!’ Crowley snarls, yellow eyes glaring at something in the distance with an expression Aziraphale has only seen a couple of times before. ‘Angel, with me, now. You’ve got some smiting to do!’

Aziraphale, however, is a bit slower on the uptake. Which is understandable, given that: ‘Crowley, what on _earth_ are you talking about? I haven’t smitten anyone in… I’ve _never_ smitten anyone and I’m not going to start now!’

‘Oh, you will,’ Crowley promises, his voice a low growl. All the previous contentment and ease have gone and now his body is a taut, rigid line that is practically vibrating with tension. ‘You will. You see him?’

He points. Aziraphale follows his gaze and sees three people, sitting on a bench a couple of dozen yards away. Two male, one black, one white and one female, also white.

Aziraphale watches the girl’s blond ponytail fall back as she laughs at an enterprising duck which has, apparently, just stolen the black man’s lunch. The black man, offended, tries to get it back but falls flat on his face, which makes the other man burst out laughing as well. He is stocky and rough-looking, with long hair and a shadow on his cheeks that passed five o’clock some time ago but his posture is relaxed, one arm slung around the blonde girl’s shoulders as he reaches out to help the black man get up.

‘Damn ducks,’ is all Aziraphale catches from this distance, but it is enough to make both the girl and the long-haired man laugh again.

‘Crowley, enlighten me. Which of that happy trio am I supposed to strike down?’ he asks the demon, who is still glaring daggers in their general direction. ‘The girl, the one who just got robbed of his pizza slice by a duck or the one who looks like he is one acoustic guitar away from bursting out in a country ballad about West Virginia?’

Crowley spins on his heel, fixing his yellow-eyed stare upon Aziraphale who meets it without blinking. ‘None of those are a sin, you know,’ he even adds amicably. ‘Not even the country ballad thing.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Crowley spits, ‘you don’t _recognize_ him?’

‘The pizza slice fellow? No, I…’

‘ _Not him._ ’

‘Ah. The Country Ballad fellow then.’ Aziraphale squints and hems and haws and tilts his head for a long minute, until he can practically hear the steam clouds screaming out of Crowley’s ears. ‘I’m afraid not, dear fellow. But I have a feeling you are about to inform me exactly as to what his identity is, yes?’

\---

‘Eliot, tall skinny redhead and squishy blond guy, three o’clock.’

‘Already got ‘em, Parker.’

‘You know them?’

‘Nope. Hardison?’

‘Hang on, hang on… Ah, got them. Thank you London, home to _the_ most security cameras on the _planet._ I got your face, and now I got… huh.’

‘Huh? Whaddya mean _huh?_ ’

Hardison frowns at his phone, careful not to look up and glance in the direction of the two weirdos who have been staring at them for a good three minutes now. ‘Well, one of them I’ve got. AJ Crowley, seems to be some kind of social media influencer, I think. But the other… nothing. Not so much as a Facebook page or driver’s license.’

‘ID card or passport?’ Eliot asks. He throws a piece of pizza crust at the duck that stole from Hardison earlier as a reward. ‘He’s gotta have one of those, we’re in _Europe.’_

‘I’ll look,’ Hardison says, glaring at the duck triumphant. ‘But it’s gonna take time. Time I’d rather not spend here getting checked out by shady people hiding behind shady sunglasses.’

‘Let’s go,’ Parker decides. ‘We’ll deal with this back at the hotel.’

She gets up and both Eliot and Hardison, after one brief scuffle about _don’t feed the ducks pizza Eliot, that’s bad for them and also, they’re assholes who don’t deserve it,_ they leave the duck pond behind them and head back towards their five-star hotel at the edge of St James’ Park.

\---

‘Well I never,’ Aziraphale mutters, watching them go. ‘Eliot Spencer. I must say, I never would have guessed.’

‘ _Now_ you see?’ Crowley asks, practically hopping from one foot to the other, too aggravated to stand still. ‘ _Now_ you see why you’ve gotta _go_ and _smite_ that man _right_ now or we’ll have something _far_ worse to deal with than a simple little Armageddon! If _Spencer_ is here, then something _evil_ is afoot and you’d better put a stop to it, _right now._ ’

‘Darling, you’re talking in italics again,’ Aziraphale says with a calm smile that only seems to infuriate Crowley even more if the indignant sputtering is anything to go by. ‘But if I may, as they say, put in my ‘two cents’, then I do not think smiting the fellow is at all appropriate here.’

‘Fine! I’ll do it myself then!’ Crowley sneers and sets off in the direction Eliot Spencer and his companions disappeared, when a hand closes around his wrist.

He looks back, stunned, into blue eyes that look unusually determined. ‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale says in that low voice he only uses in Extremely Serious Situations, ‘I am not going to smite that man. _You_ are not going to smite, hurt, tempt, or otherwise harm that man _or_ his friends. Do I make myself clear?’

No. Not at all. The demon gapes. Takes off his sunglasses again. Gapes some more, until the grip on his wrist turns into a loose hold and Aziraphale steps closer. Right into Crowley’s personal space, and the demon cannot resist leaning in, just a little, when the smell of vanilla and incense hits his nose.

‘Do not get me wrong,’ Aziraphale says. ‘I do know Spencer’s reputation. And _if_ it turns out he is here on… nefarious business, we _will_ stop him. I promise.’ He stops, smiling up at Crowley, who swallows and nods.

‘But my dear,’ Aziraphale continues, ‘you know how I can sense the way you love me? How I can sense the way _humans_ love each other?’

Crowley nods. Then a terrible suspicion dawns on his face and he turns around, staring slack jawed towards the end of the park. ‘Oh. Oh no. Angel, no, don’t tell me…’

‘Oh yes,’ Aziraphale says with a bright smile. ‘It’s not often I can sense that kind of love from a human, you know. Let alone for two people at once. And all the way from over there, too.’

‘Evil can still love, angel,’ Crowley points out, pointing towards himself. ‘Here. Exhibit A. We have to follow him, find out what he’s up to.’

Aziraphale’s smile does not diminish in the slightest. ‘Of course, dear. Of course.’

\---

‘Hardison, have you found anything yet?’

Hardison is _this_ close to actually defenestrating his computer. Because it’s clearly defective, or else it’s the funny European internet they have over here, data probably getting parsed on the wrong side of the ether or something. He’s been looking for Frumpy Blond Guy for an hour now and normally, he’d already have his birth certificate, medical records, high school report cards and bachelor thesis about the significance of the word _blue_ in the collected works of William Shakespeare.

All he’s found so far now? Squat. Zilch. Zero. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Instead of replying, he shakes his head and takes another swig of orange soda. It tastes wrong. Nothing like American soda, which makes your tooth enamel commit hara-kiri just by looking at it; this stuff almost tastes like actual oranges and that is just not right.

Next to him, Parker makes a face. ‘I don’t like ghosts. Ghosts are always hiding something. Even if they look old and frumpy.’

‘ _Especially_ if they look old and frumpy,’ Eliot mutters. He has taken up position by the window, watching out without being seen.

Parker nods. Hardison wrinkles his nose, takes another swig of too-orangey orange soda and turns back to his disappointment of a computer.

And perhaps the computer can tell he’s disappointed in it. Who knows; after all the hours and effort he’s put into it, perhaps it has become attuned to his mental state. It would not surprise Hardison, although it probably would make Parker laugh and Eliot groan, but he has sometimes secretly suspected his more personal equipment to be, well, not entirely without some kind of personality. Some kind of awareness that goes beyond their cables and cards and hard drives.

In short, right as he turns back to the screen, the computer lets out a beep and switches to display the security camera footage of the hotel lobby downstairs, where a tall ginger man and a short, slightly pudgy blond guy have just walked in.

Parker jumps up. Eliot starts swearing. And Hardison lets out a very, _very_ heavy sigh.

‘Oh, you have got to be _kidding_ me.’


End file.
